


Sympathy For The Devil

by Legbird



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Demons/Angels AU, Gen, pre-conworth if you squint really hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legbird/pseuds/Legbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons/Angels AU in which Worth might actually be older than 37. Angels exist and nobody wants to believe that they might be the bad guys. Possibly the first part in a series, will have multiple chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathy For The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Just want to say thank you for checking out this work, since it's the first fanfic I've published since a long dead Homestuck obsession.

It’s an early Sunday morning- and on some shelf in some grungy ramshackle of the clinic there’s a shitty Degan radio playing an equally shitty song about some poor bastard getting cheated by the devil or the devil getting cheated by some poor bastard.   
There’s not a lot of variation in rock and country these days.

But it’s still an early Sunday, and overdone music or not, there’s still the thirty-something sitting at his desk, face covered by bandaged hands that dug their palms neatly into his eye-sockets. Early Sunday means a nice chunk of a hangover- with a set of heavy limbs to match the jackhammer berating the side of his skull. If he’s lucky- and lucky’s not the word he’d use, sly, maybe- just not lucky. But even if he was, he’d have a sliver of a chance to use some unholy mind power to get the radio to shut up.

Worth manages to stop hissing under his breath long enough to pull his hands away from his face- eyes narrowing to dark, bloodshot slits that focused on the dinky radio and it’s sorry excuse of a sound quality that was almost surpassed by throwing the radio itself in a blender half full of rocks and glue. But no matter how hard he was staring at the radio, there was not a single chance of it combusting into a spontaneous fire. Some fucking luck.

Instead of standing, he slaps his desk, looking for whatever bottle might be lying on its side, hap hazardously discarded. His hand lands on the neck of what feels like a bottle, but in the dank light of the clinic, could have been anything. It’s not like he remembered last night, it was just a slurry of rune-shaped blurs and drinks and blood. Lots of blood- he’d look into that part later, but if he doesn’t shut that radio up, someone’s going to see something ugly and it’s too early to explain to the authorities why the homeless guy on the street corner is screaming bloody murder with a six-five Aussie chasing his ass down the street yelling about how he needs to “Shut th’ fuck up or yer ass is grass”.

So, he does the reasonable thing, and lobs the amber bottle at the radio, the projectile spinning in a corkscrew spiral until the bottle connected with the radio, knocking it flat on its back as the bottle shattered against the wall. A long string of garbled, vehement curses pours out of Worth’s mouth at the recognition of the fact that the radio was still playing, but the static had cleared up. All that could be heard was the main guitar of a song that Worth took a moment to divine the name of, up until the point where a chunk of the song cut through the air.

Just as every cop is a criminal  
And all the sinner saints…

He grumbles a moment before getting up and walking over to the radio, leaning on his arm in a bored attempt to actually listen to the song. Mick Jagger had been partially right in 1968, and Worth remembered all too well the debut of the song and every bible-thumping mother out there plugging the ears of their children because God forbid someone talk about Satan in a song. Flash forward forty-five years later, and he’s still reminiscing about how Jagger swore that “Everyone was Lucifer”.   
Everyone.

That includes every pope and baptized baby you could shake a stick at.

Every man woman and child that had somehow wandered into his clinic and may or may not have wandered out.

Which, by all means of any logic whatsoever- 

Meant he was included in that total.

\----  
It's not an easy bus ride.

It's the kind of overcrowded bus with hitchhikers, chain-smoking moms and a prostitute situated next to an unsettled business man. Or at least looked unsettled. Maybe he was just shy about paying hookers on a bus.

In the back, it was more crowded, three men with no concept of personal space crammed together like a can of cigar saturated sardines. One smells like a bar tap with a bad leak, the other like a vat of cough syrup that spent most of its time congealing in the glove box of a car.

The third is lankier, long legs spread to claim more of the seat than he needed and glaring out the window at something- lighter in hand and cigarette between two disjoint fingers that had seen more abuse than they could have taken under natural circumstances. 

But seat space and smoking habit aside, there's a quirk in his sneer that could have been classified as a smile- but was more malicious than the average “I promise I’m a good guy” look. Tired eyes can make a man look like he was assaulted by a frying pan backhand to the face- or they make a man look wiser.

Somewhere, his face fell in between the two extremes, the grey area of expression-poker tells, where if you bet he was content, you'd probably lose your ID and your left shoe.

Worth isn't content, he's plotting- thinking about something dark and abysmal- not as dark as trying to get by with paying the month's rent, but the problem existed. This was the basis of whether or not someone on the bus was going to try and force a pistol in his mouth.

The blonde groans when the bus comes to a halt, unamused by rising voices and verbal assaults rocketing through the air like out of date fireworks. About as useful as them, too- most of the insults were convoluted and prone to backfiring.

It's not long before the other two men start picking a fight once the light flashes green and the bus starts speeding down Koontz Street. Cough syrup and Jaegerbomb are shoving each other, ham hands used as tools of separation when insults fell flat of doing any real damage.

The same ham hands that Jaegerbomb shoves his adversary into the back of Worth's shoulder while screaming something about a "Bloody Sunday". He cranes his neck to glare at the others, dull eyes sharpening the minute the cigarette snubs into the back of the tweaker's neck. 

Second stop.

Half the men get out in a hurry, and the two beside Worth shuffle to the front seat like small children. Three guys get on, and despite any actual space on the bus, sit in the seats near him- all overblown meat suits with pinstripes and long coats. If there was an award for a stereotypical mafia setup, it was going to Al Pacino and crew.

At first, Worth thinks to stay down, play dumb and act like in the next three minutes someone or something was going to try and break a wrist he could probably give three reasons to needing. 

"So- about the vampires." Al Pacino starts up and Worth ignores him, staring blankly at his face with a look of well-measured bull and confusion.

"Vamps? As in, bloodsuckin' shit or summat?"  
He stifles a sneer, which chokes its way out as an uncomfortable wheeze.  
"Ya gotta be what, Scientologists? Whatever group's got that bullshit 'bout aliens."

Pacino glares and the other two stooges look back.  
"Don't play stupid."

It's a short comment and Pacino's got his bear-paws trying to strangle the circulation from his wrist.

"We can smell the devil on you."

It takes a moment for it to sink in, and suddenly Pacino's looking a lot more "Human Pigeon of God" than "Mobster." Still, Worth attempts playing stupid even longer, this time, outright laughing in their faces.

"Isn' that a bit fuckin' rude, suits?"

There's a stale silence before the angel speaks, eyes glowing with some white hot malice for their current target.

"Uriel. My name is Uriel."

"Isn' that a girl’s name?"  
He quips, only to feel the grip tighten. He bites back a hiss, and his free hand pulls a poorly done uppercut to Uriel's chin. Kneejerk reaction to a jerk who would've been kneed had the bus not constituted as a dented can of peas and actually left room for larger passengers.

The fist was greeted with a small knife to the ribs, straight through a jacket and the more human flesh behind it. Another suspicious stain on the coat and godfuckingdammit because Uriel’s body is looming over him, blue eyes glowing with some kind of power that screamed pissy angel.

"I'll ask you again. What do you know about the vampire?"

Worth's kind of seeing stars and, shit- is that holy water because holy water doesn't usually burn, but spits out a reply.

"Turn int' bats sometimes."

The knife twists.

"Does the name Adelaide ring a bell? Achenleck?"

"What, ya go through phonebooks an' pick up hooker names?" 

The knife moves deeper and his inherent yell of pain and lack of reaction from the driver proved that there were 4 angels on a bus and neither one planned on being a stranger.

"Tell me!"

There's static in the air and his fingers hang limply from his side, scraping the bottom of the seats. Beyond chewed gum and oil- something slits his hand. 

Somewhere there's a god, and that god is telling Worth to deliver some runic karma to a couple of feathery asses.

"You wanna know what I know?"

He grins, pulling Uriel's head down lower to hear the fading tone in his voice.

"What I know is- Ya don' know shit."

His hand hits the bottom of the chair, and the angel company screeches- a burst of white light and the simmering heat of white magic.

The only downside was, the shock made Uriel leave without his knife, which was firmly planted between his ribs.

It wasn't an easy bus ride.

\-----

He’s wondering if the only reason he’s drinking more is because shit like the bus ride of the Constantine fan club is happening more often and it’s just getting hard to pull knives out of his torso while sober. Mottled scars across his flank and collarbones could agree with the theory, dark bruises shading the contorted muscles around shoulder blades. A real mess that was probably getting mopped up with tequila shots, if he had to guess.   
The knife that found its home in the lower juncture of his ribs was twirling dumbly in his hand, serrated blade held up by a fairly clean cut spine. The handle was, in itself, probably just made of cheap wood, carved with older runes. Maybe Sumerian, maybe something harder to figure out. Whatever it was, it seemed like Uriel was either cut for time in finding some weapon to use in the act of harassing the general supernatural public for answers. Either that, or he just has a thing for things that look like classic steak-knives. Worth snorts at the thought, thumb rubbing against the handle, grazing against the markings. At least it explained the burning- seemed more appropriate.

It’s about nine PM and for some reason the idea that maybe nobody was going to visit had crammed into his skull, and had shattered with a high, keening sound the minute the front door had bust open. His hand fumbles with the knife, and quickly slams it into the wood of the desk, lodging the blade in an almost immovable point. His hand fails to move off the handle when the hardy boys barge in the front of the clinic, and he leans into his arm, acting more aloof than he actually was. He figures if he moves he’d tear the wound open and start bleeding through the bandages and Hanna’s onsite bloodhound would throw some kind of conniption fit. So Worth stays poised at the desk, hand pulling on the knife in an attempt to remove it. He doesn’t take his eyes off the redhead for a moment.  
“Don’ even have ter tell me shit, I jus’ know yer gonna give me some kinda fucked up news.” He comments before Hanna can speak, pulling the knife out of the desk and slamming it back down onto the surface with a harsher clatter than he intended. Short commentary aside, it only earned him an eye roll from Hanna and two, somewhat blank looks from both dead men in the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hanna blurts in defense as Worth sits back down, a raised eyebrow and a frown telling Hanna “You know exactly what I mean” before pointing two fingers at Hanna’s personal monster mash.

“Means I’m expectin’ more a’ yer dead boyfriends t’ come trottin’ into my clinic, ‘s what that means.” 

“They aren’t really dead, at least, not I the way I know you mean because you’re probably just trying to be a jerk per usual, right?” Hanna laughs, taking advantage of the fact that Worth probably wouldn’t cause him excessive bodily harm like he would probably do to the rest of the human race. Worth lets out a short laugh-sigh in response, before noting Conrad pantomiming a conversation with Ezekiel- fuck, he needs a list of his goddamn names- and decides that, no, he’s not having a conversation, because Ezekiel’s eyeing Hanna like some distressed babysitter.

“So- D’ya jus’ talk ter yerself fer fun, or am I missin’ some important psychological info on yer white ass?”  
Conrad stares back, eyes narrowed behind glasses, and Worth finds it privately fucking hilarious that he’s giving him that look after getting called out on talking to himself.  
“Oh no. Just trying to figure out how you keep trying to peg me as his goddamn boyfriend.” Conrad jeers, and Worth decides to play along because the window for commentary got left wide open.

“Yer right. Hanna’s probably more int’ tall, rottin’ an’ handsome.”

Hanna stares back at him like a baby deer in the headlights.

“What? Okay, dude, stop. I didn’t come out here for you to play matchmaker.”

Worth gets up at that point, and moves to the front of his desk again, leaning back like the desk was the most comfortable thing in the world. His hand brushes against the knife and he slides it behind him, best not to have anyone ask questions. Long legs cross and he’s staring like some expectant vulture at the three men in his office, because something about Hanna’s tone cut the harassment time he had short, and the buzzkill wasn’t helping his mood.

“Well, ‘f I’m not marryin’ anyone off or givin’ my blessin’ t’ ya, th’ fuck ya actually come down ‘ere fer? Ya look fine.”

“I was just wondering if you’ve seen any new seelie come in, is all.” Hanna huffs and peers around the golem that Worth had made his body into, before vocally calling out the knife.

“Is that a hunter’s knife?” Hanna asks, and Worth manages to rub the bridge of his nose while Hanna slinks to the side of the desk to grab at the knife for a quick inspection.

“What the hell do you even have that for?” Conrad blurts in accusation, before looking at the base of the blade, which was stained a moderately dark maroon, and back to Worth.

“I swear, if you fucking killed someone-“

“Didn’ kill anyone. Calm th’ fuck down, princess.” Worth interjects, eyes flat and unimpressed, staring back at the vampire.

“Jus’ a souvenir from gettin’ shanked on a bus, ‘s all it is.” 

He doesn’t know what he expected, but three people staring at him with varied looks of concern wasn’t one of them. He gets up from his perch in defense, because the looks of pity were just getting on his nerves. 

“Are you telling me you got mugged on a bus?” Conrad asks cautiously, and Worth looks at him in exasperation. 

“Yeah, some hunter came up t’ me an’ mugged me fer what? Magical fuckin’ cigarettes?” 

Conrad groans, rubbing at his temple before turning away to go look at the knife as Hanna examined the handle.

“You know what? Forget it, I keep forgetting that you’re not a normal human being who can understand the idea of sympathy. I don’t even know how you manage to keep astounding me. That’s the real fucking magic he was after. Your ability to make an ass of yourself.”

Worth shoots him a “Go fuck yourself” look, and Hanna sighs.

“Okay, well- I’ll be honest and tell you they weren’t hunters. I haven’t even seen this before, nothing like it.” Hanna pauses, and squints behind thick glasses.  
“You sure it was a hunter, and not some fey?” 

“Positive. Had a little too much feather an’ halo.” He says in a bored tone, lighting a cigarette, hands fumbling with the rusted gears when Hanna manages to squeak out a “What?”.

“’m sayin’ they were angels, kid.” He grumbles behind a cigarette, and Hanna shakes his head.  
“I think you might be telling the truth, but I just didn’t think they existed, this is just weird.”

Worth looks at him in confusion. He’s got zombies, vampires, and every goddamn monster under the moon, but apparently angels were too far-fetched? 

“I’m gonna take this back with me for a look, I’ll get back to you on that angel thing, Doc.” Hanna mutters quickly shoving the blade in his hoodie pocket and looking expectantly at his zombie companion, whose orange eyes seemed to flicker with their own brand of uncertainty when they glanced over Worth. 

“It might be best for you to stay indoors, a personal suggestion.”

A few layers of what the fuck scrabble through his head, and once the door shuts, he recognizes he’s still got a vampire in his clinic looking at him like he’s some goddamn heretic. 

“What makes you think it was angels?” He asks, and Worth finds himself grinning back at him.

“’m touched ter think ya even give a damn.”

“What? You know I don’t- Jesus- I’m worried about our general safety, not you.” Conrad snips, and Worth legitimately laughs.

“Somethin’ about th’ way they jus’ burst int’ a bunch a’ light ‘f ya use an angel trap.”

Conrad stops, and almost winces, because shit- maybe he was actually taking him seriously. Worth couldn’t actually tell at this point.

“What’s th’ issue?” He asks.

“I’m just- hoping you’ve been on an acid trip and ‘burst of light’ means you forgot what the sun was at some point. I mean, how would you be able to know that they were-“ Conrad trails off, and jesus fuck it’s actually kind of bothering him that they seem to shy away from the subject.

“Angels?” Worth adds, before continuing. “The hell’s with ya bein’ all freaked out by angels?”

Conrad stares at him, and shakes his head. 

 

“I’m not freaked out. It’s just- weird to think about angels because it just seems like everything’s some form of monster, you know?”

Worth takes a drag and sighs.

“No, I don’ actually know, ‘cause when ya actually know th’ bastards, they aren’ here ter save ya from th’ bad guys. Trust me. Shit doesn’ work like that.”

Conrad gives him a nervous look, and Worth shrugs.

“’f they were any better than me an’ you- don’ ya think they would’ve wiped out them before we got int’ this business?”

He drops the cigarette onto the floor and stamps it out before continuing.

“Always hate t’ break that news t’ people, but god’s kids are kinda dicks.”

Conrad sighs deeply, and backs away from the wall, moving towards the door. He pries it open, and manages to spit out some half-sincere goodbye.

“Don’t go looking for the angels, then. Got it.”

The door shuts behind him and Worth slumps back into his desk chair, and sighs into his hand. Because everything just got complicated for no fucking reason other than they were just worried about him and the possibility of angels. 

Seriously. Fuck angels.


End file.
